Mayonnaise, like love, spoils quickly, something Jill forgot because it was so goddamn hot and because she got so messed up on all those beers while Tim gobbled seconds, thirds, and then a final plateful of her famous tuna salad.

I see him at the beach in our favourite spot and call out, raise my arm enthusiastically, giving my sunniest smile, swelling like the sea before the wave crashes down: it isn’t him standing, turning, where I scattered his ashes and it’s beginning to rain.